


the kingdom that stood

by limitedbycreativity



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF, ASoIaF Kink Meme, Alternate Universe, Brother-Sister Relationships, Brothers, F/M, Falling In Love, Kink Meme, Love, Marriage, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-20 17:51:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limitedbycreativity/pseuds/limitedbycreativity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The halls of Winterfell were near icy with the cold, the North still tight in the grip of winter. The snow fell thick and the air had a bite to it when the dragons arrived. They bore the conqueror of Westeros, the Dragon King Aegon Targaryen.</i>
</p>
<p>An Alternate Universe story based on <a href="http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/17121.html?thread=11695585#t11695585">this Kink Meme Prompt</a>: "The Starks never bent the knee to the Targaryens, but agreed to coexist with them as a kingdom in the North and a kingdom in the South."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by [this ASOIAF kink meme](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/17121.html?thread=11695585#t11695585):  
> "AU: The Starks never bent the knee to the Targaryens, but agreed to coexist with them as a kingdom in the North and a kingdom in the South. Part of the peace agreement between them meant that the Starks must wed their younger children to members of Southron houses (the heir to the Northern throne could still wed the North) while the Targaryens agree to wed one of their younger children to a Northern house (preferably a Stark if one is available). As such, Catelyn is wed to Ned, the second son, and they are quite happy. But when Brandon dies on a visit to the Wall, Ned gives the North its first ever Southron queen, and they rule like bosses!" 
> 
> Was intended to be short, but as so often happens, it ran away with me. Apologies! :) Hope you enjoy anyway (and if the OP sees this, that's wonderful, and hopefully it won't be too far off what you imagined.)
> 
>  
> 
>   
> ~~oh god i'm terrified why am i doing this~~  
> 

The halls of Winterfell were near icy with the cold, the North still tight in the grip of winter. The snow fell thick and the air had a bite to it when the dragons arrived. They bore the conqueror of Westeros, the Dragon King Aegon Targaryen.

It was here that he met with Winterfell's icy lord, Torrhen Stark, and speculation was ripe that the King in the North would not be so foolish as to fight the Dragons, and Winterfell would escape the fate of the desecrated Harrenhall. They said he would bend the knee, and already singers wrote songs of the complete conquest by the Targaryen siblings, of Torrhen’s bent knee and the united Seven Kingdoms. But these songs were not meant to be written. For when King Aegon and his sisters arrived back in their new capitol, it was proclaimed that the North would be a kingdom of its own, to rule in tandem and aligned with the South. Nobody knew what had been said, in those icy halls of Winterfell, that had made Aegon come to this agreement; the Starks had never been known for their oracular skills, but had always been practical and straightforward. They were not the cold icemen the stories would have it said, and perhaps Aegon saw that. Perhaps he saw the wisdom in an alliance with the King of Winter. But, as said, nobody but Aegon and Torrhen would know, and both had been dead for centuries.

As such, the Seven Kingdoms never were, and instead established were the Southern Kingdom and Northern Kingdom. While the discussion that took place in Winterfell between Wolf and Dragon would forever remain a mystery, some of the alliance’s terms became clear over time. The North and South bound themselves tightly and intrinsically together over the following years; many young Targaryens were sent north to wed there, and the children of Winterfell were married to Southern houses, with the except of every oldest son. The stories said that Torrhen Stark wanted the future kings and queens of his kingdom to be of the North, and of the North alone; this seemed unlikely, but still the oldest sons of his descendents were never married to a Southern lass, in all the years since the treaty was written.

By the time King Rickard Stark was crowned in the same Winterfell hall his forefather had negotiated with dragons in, the treaty was well established. Rickard had married a Northern lass, but his sisters had all made Southern matches, and his younger brother had wed a beautiful Targaryen with hair as silver as the snow. Rickard knew this would be the fate of his children, and as, one-by-one, they arrived – Brandon, Eddard, Lyanna and Benjen – Rickard thought it strangely sad that the lives of his young babes had been dictated centuries before they had arrived to live them.

Brandon was to wed the North, as was the tradition for the oldest sons. By the time he had reached his twentieth nameday, he had grown into a handsome man, tall and charming with the Stark looks that he shared with his father and siblings.

Sat on the Iron Throne was King Aerys II Targaryen, wed to his sister-wife Rhaella and father of two sons, the Crown Prince Rhaegar and young Viserys. Rhaegar had two heirs of his own by a Martell bride, and rumours stretched even as far as the Winter Halls that the Queen carried another baby, another heir to the Southern kingdom.

Rickard's three younger children posed more of a problem than his crown prince Brandon. It was important to have them all wed, and they were all to make Southern matches, should the South have available lords and ladies of a similar age to his princes and princesses. Eddard was now a grown man of eighteen years, tall as his brother but quieter, more solemn, more like the Ice Prince the Southern Kingdom whispered about. He was a skilled warrior, and performed all his duties as well as a second son should, and more. Rickard thought he would make any Southern woman happy, if he were less restrained, freer with his handsome smile and warm heart. He was very much like Rickard, thought the King of Winter, in both the good ways and the bad. His match was the most pressing, Rickard knew – Lyanna was of marriageable age, but at fourteen years there was no rush, and indeed it was advisable to wait, while Benjen was only just ten and a long way off taking a bride. Eddard was more than old enough, and as a Winter Prince, more than eligible for any of the Southern houses.

There was no Targaryen girl for him to wed, but Rickard knew several women of marriageable ages in the great houses – Casterly Rock boasted a daughter whose golden beauty was sung of even above the Neck, of a similar age to Eddard, but Rickard was suspicious of Tywin Lannister’s ambition, and it was said that the girl was much like as her father. House Dayne had the lady Ashara, who was said to be beautiful and sweet, and there were several girls of Dorne who warranted attention. Lord Hoster Tully had not one but two eligible daughters, and it was here that Rickard’s interest was piqued. A Stark had not wed a Tully, so far as Rickard could remember, and a tie with the Riverlands would be no bad thing. Hoster was a good man, and kind, Rickard thought, trying to recall the last time he had seen the Lord of Riverrun. He did not venture into the Southern Kingdom much, not anymore, and rarely did any Southerner work up the courage to venture into the lands of winter.

And this was how Eddard Stark found himself travelling to the Southern Kingdom to treaty with the Tullys. His father had sent Brandon with him, after Brandon had pleaded to act as chaperone to his little brother. When Eddard had asked him why, Brandon had smiled that toothy, charming smile, and told him, “I can’t miss seeing you woo a girl, Ned. The image doesn’t come easily to me, oddly enough.” In response, Eddard punched him on the arm.

Brandon had travelled to the Southern Kingdom a few times, occasionally with their father when he was young, but as the King stopped journeying as much and Brandon got older, he began to take more of these trips without him. Eddard had joined him once or twice, but neither son was particularly well versed with the Southern Kingdom outside what they were taught in lessons. They were men of the North, and it was the North they knew.

Despite this, both princes had to admit that Riverrun was a sight to see. So used to the ice and snow and cold of Winterfell, both were a little stumped to see the greenery of the Riverlands, the running water that gave the castle its name and the rolling hills. There was no snow in sight, something neither man thought they would ever get used to, and both quickly grew hot in their riding clothes. They joked to one another that weather that seemed unbearably warm to them was probably as cold to the people of the Riverlands as a freezing Northern day was to the Starks, and Brandon questioned the ability of either of the Tully girls to survive in the far North.

“Do trouts like the cold?” Brandon asked, as Riverrun grew larger on the horizon. “Wolves don’t like the hot, but does it work both ways?”

Ned glanced at his brother, busy concentrating on his riding. “The wolves will suffer the heat, and the trout will endure the cold, if that is what Father wishes,”

“You truly are a romantic, Eddard,” Brandon said with a tsk, before putting on an affected voice. “‘I am Prince Eddard Stark, heir to the Northern Kingdom, and I fuck whoever my father wishes me to!’”

“Brandon!” Ned said sharply. His brother was too loose with his tongue, and spoke in ways a crown prince should not. Brandon only laughed.

“Do try to smile more, little brother!” he teased, “You can be quite handsome when you wish it.”

“What does being handsome have to do with anything?” Ned huffed. He had grown up in the shadow of his brother, who was the firstborn son and the better looking son and the more charming son. All Ned had that Brandon did not was his duty, and that was what he was here for.

“Everyone knows that girls down South love a handsome knight!” Brandon exclaimed. “One that will sweep them off their feet and kiss them senseless and have songs sung about him,”

“Sounds like you,” Ned said, his face tight, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Brandon look at him, amused.

“Could be you, too,” Brandon said with a shrug and Ned scoffed. “Oh,  _Neeeeeed_ —”

“Oh, shut up, Bran!” Ned said with a laugh, “Watch your horse.”

“Is that any way to speak to the future King in the North? The heir to Torrhen Stark himself?”

Ned laughed again. “Slay a dragon, and we’ll see if you’re Torrhen reborn.”

“He didn’t slay a dragon. He  _negotiated_ with one. An altogether different, and much more difficult, feat.” Brandon said primly. “And, besides, there’re no dragons left.”

It was true that the Targaryens' beasts had died out years ago, but that did not mean the dragons were gone.

“You’re wrong, brother,” Eddard said. “One sits on the Iron Throne, after all,”

Brandon laughed. “And I suppose Rhaegar Targaryen is a match for the beasts of old?”

Brandon had a bit of a sore spot regarding the Southern Kingdom’s crown prince, not only because they were both firstborn heirs of a similar age and therefore natural enemies, but Rhaegar had beaten Brandon in a tourney some years ago. Every time it was mentioned, Ned made a point of reminding his brother that Rhaegar was much older, and much better trained, than Brandon had been at the time, but the older Stark boy’s bitterness did not abate.

“What if you like one of the Tully sisters?” Ned asked, quickly changing topic. “Would you take her north? Make a crown princess of her?”

“I doubt it,” Brandon said with a chuckle. “In all my visits down South, I’ve never found a high-born Southern girl to my liking. The whores, yes—”

“ _Brandon_!”

“—but the ladies, not so much. Besides, my future wife is the North, isn’t it? And there are plenty of marriageable girls at home to consider. House Stark will be making enough Southern matches as it is.”

This certainly was true. There was some resentment, Eddard knew, that so many Stark children were sent to the Southern Kingdom when Northern matches could be made. The wedding of the oldest son to the North was more than Torrhen Stark’s wish – it was to placate the houses sworn to the King in the North, the promise of making their daughters Queens.

By now the brothers Brandon and Eddard were close enough to Riverrun to see the smoke rising from its chimneys, the distant hustle and bustle of the yard and hear the whinnying of their horses. The castle looked alive, and both knew the cry had long gone up of riders in the distance. Eddard felt a weight settle in his stomach. His father wished a Riverlands match and Eddard would give it to him, but the idea that he was going to meet his soon-to-be wife in mere moments made him nervous.

The family was gathered in the courtyard as the Stark riders rode in, direwolf banners flying high. The four Tullys were instantly recognizable by the red in their hair. The princes dismounted and approached the lord of the castle, Hoster Tully – he was a tall man, though not as tall as either Stark, with grey shot through his auburn hair and eyes as blue as his castle’s river. He lowered to his knee as the princes came near; so to did his children and his household. Eddard allowed Brandon to bid the lord of Riverrun to rise again, and to say his greetings before introducing his brother. It was Brandon’s place to do so, as heir to the Winter Throne and representative of House Stark.

Lord Tully wasted no time in introducing his son, Edmure, a young boy of eight or nine years, his father’s image. Then stepped forward the two girls – Catelyn and Lysa Tully. Eddard watched them both carefully as they dropped into curtseys. Both were pretty girls, with long hair of red and Tully blue eyes, but Lysa was a smaller girl, younger, and somewhat plainer of face, while her sister was taller, and undeniably beautiful. Lysa could barely look either prince in the eye, choosing instead to watch her feet, but Catelyn did not hesitate meeting Eddard’s gaze, her smile appropriately demure, and later, once Eddard had been shown to his chambers, it was the older Tully girl he thought on.

Brandon appeared in his doorway almost as soon as the servants had left it. “What did you make of them, Ned?”

Eddard looked over at him from where he stood by the window, watching the river flow. “They seem a nice family.”

“Not  _that_ , you ass!” Brandon exclaimed, stepping in and shutting the door behind him. “The girls! I liked the look of that Catelyn, myself. Big tits and wide hips!”

Eddard did not even bother to harangue him about his words, instead choosing to roll his eyes and turn away.

“The little one seemed a bit too nervous, and she’s not as pretty either. Can’t imagine her liking Winterfell. Well? Come  _on_ , Ned! Speak!”

“They seem like a nice family,” Ned repeated, ignoring Brandon’s groan. “And I should like to get to know them before I make my mind up.”

“I don’t believe you, Ned,” Brandon scoffed, studying his brother’s face. “I think you like the older one, too. Not that I could tell, really, you looked at them both like you look at your horse.”

“What’s wrong with wanting to have a conversation with them before I write to Father?” Eddard asked with annoyance, but Brandon did not seem to be listening.

“Maybe I should take your idea,” he was musing, “And take the older one back to Winterfell. I wouldn’t mind waking up beside that for the rest of my life,”

“What happened to wedding the North?” was Eddard's indignant response. It was peculiar, but the way his brother spoke about Catelyn Tully angered him. She, and her sister, were both highborn girls worthy of a good match, and the way Brandon talked about her made his skin crawl.

Brandon seemed to pick up on Ned’s irritation, and grinned widely. “Oh, little pup, I’m just joking. Father sent us here with you in mind, and I would have you come to a conclusion yourself.”

Brandon stepped forward and clapped a hand down on Eddard’s shoulder, smiling warmly. “Just don’t take too long, or this heat will melt the ice in our veins!” 


	2. Chapter II

“How _handsome_ Prince Brandon was!”

Catelyn looked up from her seat by the fireplace just in time to see Lysa swoon dramatically onto the bed, with an exaggerated sigh. She smiled fondly at her sister’s antics.

“His Grace is handsome, indeed,” she agreed, returning her gaze to her needlework. “As is his brother,”

“The younger one?” Catelyn could hear the scoff in Lysa’s voice. “I suppose he had his merits, but hardly fared well in comparison with his brother.”

“Lysa, that’s cruel,” Catelyn told her. “You don’t even know the man,”

“I’m just saying, if it’s true what the servants say and they have come to vie for our hands, it was not King Rickard’s wisest move to send the handsomer son to chaperone the one we’re meant to wed!”

“I don’t think we’re _both_ to marry him,” said Catelyn petulantly. She thought Lysa had the right of it, that Prince Brandon was the better looking of the two, but Eddard was tall and broad with a face that was handsome enough when he smiled, as he had when she had met his gaze. However, that same face could also be stern and hard, as it had first looked. She wondered why he was so cold. She thought it must be difficult for him, having an elder brother such as Brandon Stark.

“You can have Prince Eddard, then,” Lysa giggled, rolling onto her side and grinning at her big sister. “ _I_ shall woo the future King in the North!”

Catelyn laughed along with her younger sister. “Shall you, indeed? He is already betrothed, sweetling – to his kingdom!”

“Jealous mistress that the North is! I shall fight for my beloved’s hand!”

Lysa leapt to her feet and dropped into a fighting stance, crudely copied from watching the men practice with their swords in the yard, and Catelyn was laughing again, half-heartedly pointing her needle at her sister.

“I am armed!” she said warningly and Lysa lunged for her.

“Foul beast, I will defeat you!” she exclaimed, narrowly avoiding getting stabbed by Catelyn’s ‘weapon’ and tickling her ribs, at the point she knew the bodice offered the least defence. Catelyn struggled away, dropping her stitching in the process.

“Oh – oh, no, Lysa – _Lysa_ – stop!”

Lysa pulled back as Catelyn reached down to pick up her work. The older girl’s face was flushed, and her hair escaping its braids. “Oh, Lysa, I’m going to have to start again!”

Lysa shrugged and Catelyn scowled.

“ _And_ we’re going to have to redo our hair before the feast – what were you thinking?”

Lysa apologized to her sister, but did not look particularly sorry. In truth, nor was Catelyn.

As she picked gently at her stitches, and Lysa’s fingers buried in her hair to neaten it, Catelyn thought again on the Stark princes who had come to Riverrun, and particularly on the one who had come to find a wife. 

 

* * *

 

After a rest, and a much longed for wash, Eddard joined Brandon to visit Lord Hoster in his solar. The man dropped into a deep bow as they were shown in, and even offered them both his own chair – Eddard, of course, turned the offer down, but Brandon lowered himself into the chair and smiled down at them as if he already were the King.

Hoster thanked them both again for their visit, and asked them genially about their journey and how their father and the North fared, and Brandon did the talking, leaving Eddard to study the man who King Rickard would have be his good-father. He seemed a good and honourable sort. He had an open face and was straightforward too, as Eddard learnt, when Hoster took paused a moment and then turned to him, and asked him about his intentions towards his daughters.

Eddard exchanged a look with Brandon, who nodded at him, and then spoke. “As you know from my lord father’s letters, Lord Tully, the King seeks a match between our houses.”

Hoster nodded. “And you would take Catelyn or Lysa for a bride?”

“Should you consent,” Eddard said amiably, ignoring Brandon’s eye roll from across the room. Lord Hoster really was in no position to refuse the offer of a king, Eddard knew, but he saw no reason to wield that over the man. His daughters were still his own.

“It certainly is a more than suitable offer,” Hoster agreed and Eddard closed his eyes with a heavy exhale. There was no way Brandon would let that lie.

The Crown Prince of the Northern Kingdom cleared his throat. “I would hardly describe it as such,” he said, voice slightly colder than it had been before. More like his father’s. “My brother is the son of a King, and your daughter would be made a Princess.” 

“I meant no offense,” Hoster said quickly, turning back to Brandon. “I simply do not wish to rush this decision, Your Grace. My daughters are important to me,”

“And there is no better match to be made for them,” was Brandon’s amiable reply. “Your grandchildren would be the cousins of future Kings,”

Hoster looked as if he wished to say something more, but he did not, and simply inclined his head. Eddard thought that he wished his grandchildren would be the future Kings – that his daughter was marrying the heir to Winterfell, and not a second son. The thought made his fist clench around his armrest.

“It is a good match, indeed,” the Lord of Riverrun finally said, smiling at Eddard who fought to return one. “And I am certain that either of my daughters would make you a good wife.”

“They seem to be lovely girls,” Eddard said in return. “A credit to your house,”

Hoster’s smile seemed more honest for the compliment. “Many thanks, Your Grace.”

 

* * *

 

The matter of which girl Eddard would marry was not solved that night. Eddard wanted to get to know both Lysa and Catelyn Tully, and Hoster thought this wise indeed.

The next morning, following a night of revelry at the feast (during which Eddard did not dance. _Once_. Brandon had seldom been so ashamed) and a good night’s sleep, Eddard awoke to a bright, warm day. Already he missed his home, cold and frozen as it was.

He knew he should have spent the day with his host, or his host’s daughters, or at least his brother, but instead he spent it exploring Riverrun. As a child, he had been most happy sneaking around Winterfell’s seldom-used corridors and halls with Lyanna, and Benjen when he was old enough, and he did the same when visiting Northern holdfasts. A Southern castle was a mystery he had rarely been able to investigate, and he decided to take what time he could to himself.

The castle was fine indeed, airy and with large glass windows that let in plenty of Riverlands sunlight. The walls did not thrum with the heat of hot springs as Winterfell’s walls did, but then nor was it cold. In fact, Eddard felt as hot as he had while travelling, if not hotter.

He was stood by one of these impressive windows, studying the flowing river enviously and debating taking a dip in it when he became aware of a presence behind him. Turning, he found Catelyn Tully, wearing a blue dress and with her hair simply braided down her back. Her hands were clasped neatly in front of her.

“Your Grace,” she said politely, dipping into a curtsey. Eddard blinked, pushing away the surprise he felt at seeing her.

“Lady Tully,” he said in greeting. “I am sorry for not being the most polite of guests this day,”

“Not at all, your Grace. I hope you have found something to keep you occupied,”

She was looking expectantly at him, and Eddard knew that behind her pleasantries, she was curious as to what he had spent the time doing. He felt his face colour slightly.

“I, erm…” he shifted a little awkwardly, feeling distinctively un-princely, and swallowed. “I have been exploring your castle, my lady.”

Her brows arched. “Exploring?”

“Yes.”

Eddard did not elaborate, and Catelyn did not ask him to do so. Instead she took a small step toward him. “Perhaps I can show you around, my lord, if you are interested?”

Still embarrassed, Eddard wordlessly offered her his arm. Catelyn took it.

 

* * *

 

While his brother had been exploring Riverrun, Prince Brandon had been spending time with Catelyn and Lysa, something Lysa would not stop talking about as the two readied for bed.

“He has such funny stories!” she was exclaiming, as if Catelyn had not been there. “Although I did fear our septa would faint at times – she seemed a little overcome by his beauty, and his ribaldry did not help!”

Catelyn smiled indulgently as her sister rabbited on. It was true that Brandon had been exceptionally charming and funny, even gaining a supporter in the girls’ septa and chaperone. Lysa certainly seemed taken by the elder Stark, and even Catelyn had felt a little giddy in his presence. However, she had not been disappointed once she had found herself in the company of Eddard Stark.

He was quieter than his brother, yes, more thoughtful and brooding, but his gaze held something sincere in it, as his words did, and he had seemed truly interested in what Catelyn could tell him about her home, and about the Riverlands. While she had been tongue-tied around Brandon, she found herself able to talk to Eddard and contribute to their conversation. She did not tell Lysa any of this, however – her little sister was still young and thought a man’s face was the be all and end all of what he had to offer. She did not yet appreciate the power of words, the easiness of the right conversation, nor the beauty of a smile bestowed on you and you alone.

“I did not expect to spend so much of the afternoon alone with him!” Lysa sat down on the bed, looking up at Catelyn. “Where did you go, Cat?”

Catelyn shrugged, pulling pins from her hair. “I went to find Lord Eddard,”

“Oh,” Lysa sounded disinterested. “And did you?”

“Yes.”

“Was he as good company as his brother?”

_Yes_. “He was a different sort of company, Lysa.”

“That means he was _boring_ ,” Lysa said sagely, and Catelyn had to laugh.

“It does not, Lysa!” she told her. “It simply means that he is _different_.”

“Different in a good way?” Lysa asked innocently.

_Different in a very good way_.

 

* * *

 

Brandon had seemed excited beyond measure to learn that his brother had spent his day in the elder Tully’s company.

“Did you like her?” he asked eagerly. “She is a good sort of girl, Catelyn.”

“They both are,” Eddard said, although he knew very little of Lysa. Brandon shrugged.

“Yes,” he said, dragging the syllable out, “Lysa is sweet, as they both are, but she is also young. In many ways. It is good that Catelyn is older,”

Eddard nodded in acceptance.

“…and, of course, she’s the prettiest,”

“ _Brandon_.”

“It’s true!” Brandon exclaimed, defensively, “Come now, brother, you must acknowledge that it is good to have a wife with a lovely face! You do not want to wake up beside a cow every day!”

“Lysa Tully is not a cow,” Eddard said darkly, and Brandon chuckled.

“I never said that, and I certainly don’t think it. But Catelyn is the more attractive girl, as well as the fairer character – come now, brother, admit it.”

Eddard did not answer, which was answer enough for Brandon. 

 

* * *

 

The next day, Eddard tried to be a better-behaved guest, breaking fast alongside his hosts and brother. He joined Hoster Tully and Brandon for a ride in the morning, making it back to the castle as the day reached its hottest point. This time he spent in the shadows, watching the men train in Riverrun’s courtyard. The master-at-arms was training little Edmure, who carried a wooden sword appropriate to his age and strength. The little lord was hacking wildly at a straw soldier, his face gleeful, even as the master tried to teach him the proper stances and moves.

After a while, Catelyn and Lysa Tully joined him, along with their septa, to watch. Lysa greeted him with a shy smile and a curtsey before retreating to her septa’s side, while Catelyn was more familiar, standing beside him and slipping into conversation as they had the day before. She told him about little Edmure, of his dreams of being a knight and his insistence that he train for as long as he was allowed, every day. The training sessions sometimes left him so tired that his teacher or Catelyn herself would carry him to his bed.

The story made Eddard smile. “He reminds me of my little brother,”

Catelyn looked at him, curiously. “Indeed?”

“Yes. Benjen aspires to be like Brandon and I. He wants to fight like us,” Eddard could not help but chuckle, recalling Benjen wielding a sword not unlike Edmure’s. “I hope he shall never have cause to, but a boy needs to learn these things.”

He received no answer for a heartbeat, and when he turned to see if Catelyn was listening, he caught her watching him intently, a small smile on her lips. The minute Eddard met her gaze, she looked away and responded in kind, but he had seen her expression and it had made his heart thud a little faster against his ribcage.

 

* * *

 

At the feast that night, Eddard sat beside Catelyn and the two seemed deep in conversation the entire evening. Brandon saw out of the corner of his eye that Catelyn forwent several dances in order to stay beside his stick-in-the-mud brother.

Lord Hoster cleared his throat and Brandon turned to look at his host. “It would appear, your Grace, that your brother and my eldest are getting on well,”

Brandon’s eyes gleamed. “It would, indeed,”

Hoster’s expression was guarded, but Brandon fancied he saw the ghost of a smile. “It would be a great hardship to send my oldest child so far away, my lord, but in truth I had hoped this would be the way of things. I believe Catelyn would be better suited to the role in question,”

Both men glanced over at Lysa, who was dancing with Edmure, giggling away. She was a fine girl, Brandon thought, but young, very young.

He said as much to Hoster, who nodded gravely. “You have the right of it, your Grace. I believe Lysa would cope ill with the harsh winters you Northerners weather. She is a summer child, through and through.”

Catelyn was too, Brandon thought, looking back over at her, born and bred in the warm Riverlands and knew nothing of true cold. However, he also thought that she was tough, and she would endure. He smiled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just really love the tully sisters
> 
> I've been absolutely thrilled with the response this story has recieved so far, thank you all so much! Hopefully you enjoyed Chapter II. :) 
> 
> Just a quick note about the prompt that inspired this story - I have not decided what direction the tale will take in its entirety yet, but I intend to stick to the original requests as closely as possible. ~~we'll see how long that lasts.~~ Regarding the suggested/"bonus" background pairings, they may yet be incorporated into the story (although Ned and Cat always will be the main pairing, that much I'm certain of!) depending on where this goes. Of course, I will add them to the Pairings list in due course if I include them!
> 
> So, OP (if you're reading!), I am not ignoring the original prompt. For everyone else, prompt and potential bonuses are [here!](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/17121.html?thread=11695585#t11695585) :)
> 
> Thank you again for the amazing response!


	3. Chapter III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if I mess up on any of the info about the North in this chapter - it's been a while since I've read AGoT and my Westerosi geography isn't fantastic haha. 
> 
> Thank you again for the wonderful response this is getting! I'm really amazed :) hope you all enjoy Chapter 3!

“Tell me about your home,”

Eddard glanced at over at Lady Catelyn. The two of them were in Riverrun’s library, inspecting the shelves and trading opinions of the books they had read. Catelyn’s septa was not far away, and Eddard had no doubt she would come running if she fancied anything improper was taking place. The thought made him a little embarrassed.

“Of the North?” he said, looking back at the shelves in front of him, gaze trailing over the spines of the books. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lady Catelyn pull a book from the shelf in front of her and turn it over in her hands.

“Yes,” she confirmed, opening it up and turning the yellowed pages with such speed, Eddard knew she was not really reading. “I know so little about it.” 

It had been a week since Eddard had arrived at Riverrun. He had come to spend plenty of time in Catelyn Tully’s company; he had spent some time with Lysa too, but she was quite unforthcoming around him, preferring instead the company of her septa or Brandon, and Eddard thought it difficult to talk to her. Catelyn, however, he had come to know well. He had heard about her home, and about her family, and she had told him many stories of her childhood. The conversation often rolled easily and long when they talked, and he woke up looking forward to their time together. They were not engaged, however ( _not yet_ , the little voice in his head whispered), and really, she had no reason to need to know about the North. He looked across at her. Her question, he thought fondly, must come from her own curiosity. Whether it was her curiosity about this far away kingdom, or her desire to know _him_ better, Eddard was not sure, but he felt more anxious to oblige Catelyn than he had anyone else before her.

“It’s cold,” he finally said, and Catelyn laughed. She was beautiful when she laughed, Eddard thought.

“That is as much as I learn in lessons,” she told him cheerfully, and Eddard could not help but smile too. Catelyn made him smile more than anyone did, excepting Lyanna.

“That’s the important thing, I suppose,” he conceded with a low chuckle; he did not see the way Catelyn smiled at the sound, how she blushed a little. There was a moment of pause, before Eddard asked, “Is that _really_ all they tell you? That it’s cold?”

Catelyn shook her head. “Well, no. We learnt about the division of the Kingdoms, about King Torrhen and Aegon. We learnt a little of the geography, about the Wall and Winterfell and White Harbor. But not very much at all,”

“It was more important that you learnt about your own kingdom,” Eddard pointed out. “Back home we learnt little about the south.”

“Just that it was hot?” Catelyn joked, earning another chuckle. “If it please your Grace, I would love to hear about Winterfell,”

Eddard pulled a face – he disliked being called ‘your Grace’.  But he nodded, and leant against the sturdy bookshelf, crossing his arms. “Winterfell. Well, it is a grand old castle, plenty of halls and chambers, with turrets and towers and dungeons perfect for exploring,”

Catelyn’s eyes sparkled, recalling how she had found Eddard exploring Riverrun a week previously.

“The yard is always filled with activity,” Eddard continued. “Soldiers training, dogs barking, horses being groomed and saddled. When the King holds court, people come in from the Winter Town, and sometimes from all around the kingdom, to lay their requests at his feet. He’s a true Stark, my father, a reasonable king, and kind when he can be. We keep to our own gods up there, not the Seven they keep to down here; only the Manderlys at White Harbor are different. Most Northerners worship in the godswoods, outside where we’re closest to the gods.

“It can get cold up north, yes – in the winter, the snow falls deeper than you can imagine, and sometimes you can’t much see the sun. But Winterfell’s kept warm by hot springs, and the walls thrum with the life of it. When our bannermen from further north come to stay, they're unused to such heat. The closer to the Wall you are, though, the colder and colder you get. The few Southern visitors we get find Winterfell to be freezing, but they get the warmest rooms and the best furs, and sooner or later they realise it’s not the ice kingdom rumours say it is. And it really is not. There’s nowhere else I would rather have grown up.”

Eddard paused for breath; he had not talked that much at once in a long time, if ever. He missed home, and it was nice to talk about it. When he refocused his gaze on Catelyn, she was watching him intently. After a moment, she realised he was not going to speak again, and said, “It sounds so… different,”

“It is,” Eddard agreed, and momentarily he regretted telling Catelyn so much, fearful that she would be put off him for it. “But different is not always bad,”

Catelyn watched him for a long moment. And then she smiled. “No. No, it’s not. In fact, Winterfell sounds wonderful,”

“I hope you get to see it one day,” Eddard said without thinking. He stiffened immediately, and opened his mouth to rectify the situation, but Catelyn cut him off.

“I hope so, too,” she said simply, snapping her book shut and replacing it on the shelf. She turned to face him fully, her expression warm. “I believe it is nearly time to eat, my lord. Shall we…?”

Still slightly in shock, Eddard nodded and gestured for Catelyn to lead the way. She smiled up at him.

“Perhaps you and Prince Brandon can tell me more over the feast?” she asked.

Eddard nodded. “Anything you like, my lady.”

 

* * *

 

Catelyn was sitting in a window seat beside Edmure, reading a book with him, when Lysa strode into the room and announced that Catelyn was going to marry Eddard Stark.

Edmure dropped his book in shock. “Cat’s getting married?!”

“Lysa, what are you talking about?” Catelyn sighed, “I am not betrothed.”

“I am certain of it, though!” Lysa claimed. “He came here for a bride, we know, and he’s been spending so much time with you.”

As ridiculous as Catelyn thought her sister’s proclamation to be, she could not deny that she was right. She had spent much time in Eddard’s company of late, the septa buzzing suspiciously in the background, and she knew that he and Lysa had taken little interest in one another. Catelyn liked the Prince very much as she had got to know him, and enjoyed being with him. Although Brandon still made her giddy with his presence, her heart did not speed up around him as it had when they had first arrived over a week ago, but it did around Eddard.

She stalled for time by picking up Edmure’s book. “You are right in that, Lysa, but no proposals have been accepted yet,”

“How do you know? He could be in Father’s solar right now!”

Again, what Lysa said was true, but somehow Catelyn thought Prince Eddard would come to her about it first.

Instead of responding to that, she turned to Edmure. “I’m not going anywhere, my sweet, not yet.”

Edmure leant heavily against her, wrapping his arms around her. “I don’t want you to go, ever, Cat.”

He was still a boy, as much as he wanted to be a man, and Catelyn knew her leaving would affect him badly – she was the only mother he had ever known. But Edmure was a Tully, and he would do his duty, and endure.

Catelyn kissed the crown of his head without saying anything, and Lysa sat on the window seat beside Edmure.

“I didn’t mean to worry you, brother,” she said contritely, and Edmure smiled across at his other sister without releasing Catelyn. Before any of the siblings could say something more, they heard a cry drift in from the courtyard through the open window.

“ _Riders_!”

Edmure was spun around in a flash, face pressed to the window’s glass. “Riders?!”

The girls turned to look out too. Indeed, in the distance, were the first signs of riders approaching Riverrun – not a big party, a mere handful of men, but they held aloft banners that looked familiar.

Lysa realised it first. “It’s Petyr!”

 

* * *

 

Lord Petyr Baelish of the Fingers was Lord Hoster Tully’s ward, and had grown up alongside Lord Hoster’s own children. Prior to the arrival of the Princes of Winterfell, he had returned to the Vale to visit with his family. Hoster had not expected him back until after the Princes’ departure. He had hoped a marriage contract would be made before his return, at least – Hoster had suspicions about the regard Lord Baelish held his daughters in, and thought it would be prudent to have everything dealt with while he was away.

Hoster came out to the yard as Baelish rode in, with a few riders bearing his belongings, and the young man dismounted quickly and greeted Lord Tully.

“You have returned at an exciting time, Petyr,” Hoster told him, sounding cold despite himself. “Riverrun has visitors from the North,”

The boy frowned, “Visitors, my lord? From the Northern Kingdom?”

Hoster nodded. “The Princes Brandon and Eddard,”

Hoster told Petyr little else, just that the princes had come to see the Riverlands and that anything else was a lord’s business, not his, but Petyr had connections amongst the servants, and heard the rumours circulating within hours of arriving: Hoster intended to marry one of his daughters to Prince Eddard Stark.

And the best of it, the kitchen maid informing Petyr thought, was that all the rumours agreed the chosen wife-to-be would be Lady Catelyn.

Petyr’s eyes narrowed at her. “Indeed?”

“Yes, m’lord! The Prince and her spend the days together, they do, and always sit beside one another at the feast – you’ll see it this evening, I imagine!”

The feast was still hours away, and Petyr only took the time to wash and change out of his riding clothes before he was on his way to the Tully family’s wing.

He had barely opened the door to the sitting room before Lysa was in his arms, hugging him fiercely.

“Oh, _Petyr_! We didn’t expect you back for a long time yet!” she exclaimed. Petyr hugged her back half-heartedly, looking over her shoulder to where Catelyn was sitting by the window, holding a book in her lap. Edmure was impatiently waiting for his turn to greet him.

Catelyn watched her siblings and Littlefinger, a little unnerved by the way he stared at her. He had always been unrestrained with his attention and affection, which had been lovely when they were young and sweet, but such obvious displays of affection could not carry on now they were adults. Catelyn turned her upper body and looked out the window. If she were to marry Eddard, and become a princess, it would not do to have rumours about her relationship with Littlefinger plaguing her, no matter that they were false. That would not do at all, regardless of what match Catelyn made. When they had been younger, their behaviour was brushed off as a child’s innocence, but Catelyn was not so foolish as to miss the change in Littlefinger as she had grown into a woman; she did not miss the way he looked at her, and how different it was to how he looked at Lysa. It made her uncomfortable, and confused; he was still the boy who was almost her brother and she loved him as a sister, and not a little bit more.

So, when he stepped towards her and said her name through a grin, she stood up and told him how happy she was to see him again, and she let him kiss her cheek, but she would not fling herself into his arms as Lysa did nor chatter excitedly at him like Edmure. Catelyn could see on his face as she pulled away that he was hurt and a bit confused, and it cut her to the quick – but that evening, as she arrived at the feast and saw Prince Eddard stand up to greet her, smiling just for her, she thought it might be worth it.

 

* * *

 

Brandon reclined back in the chair by the fire, a mug of ale in his hand. “Well, now that that Lord Baelish has returned, not even _I_ can get a look in with Lady Lysa!”

Eddard chuckled from where he sat on the bed, removing his boots. Now that Lord Hoster’s ward had returned to Riverrun, Catelyn’s younger sister seemed to have interest in little else. Throughout the feast, she had sat with him and chattered away, attempting to coerce her father's quiet ward into conversation. She even refused to dance with Edmure, preferring instead to stay seated beside Petyr. She would have danced if he had asked her, Eddard thought, but Lord Baelish did not seem in a dancing mood.

Catelyn, for her part, seemed disinterested in Baelish’s return. She sat beside Eddard, as she usually did, and spent the feast’s duration with him, and the memory warmed Eddard from the inside out. Brandon glanced over to see his brother smiling to himself, and knew what he was thinking about. He rolled his eyes and took a mouthful of beer.

“Baelish, however,” he said after swallowing, keeping his voice careful. “Seemed more interested in the Lady Catelyn,”

Eddard focused on his boots, although the smile vanished. He had not missed the way Petyr watched Catelyn the entire night, and he thought that Baelish desired her. Catelyn had hardly seemed to notice it, although she did not ignore him either, and smiled whenever her and Baelish's eyes met. Eddard cleared his throat.

“She has told me about their childhood together,” he told Brandon, “And she said he was a nice boy, quiet, and practically a brother to her,”

“I have no doubt Catelyn loves him as a brother! What I wonder is if he loves her like a sister.”

Eddard cast aside his boots and stood up, reaching for his own drink. “What Petyr Baelish feels does not concern me.”

Brandon conceded the point, and returned instead to his ale. Perhaps Eddard was right to put Baelish out of mind – he was busy winning Catelyn’s affections, after all. But Brandon was fearful that Baelish would yet cause problems.

He finished his ale in a mouthful. No matter what the Hoster’s little ward did, Brandon would not let him hurt his brother or Catelyn Tully. He was a Stark, after all, a wolf, and wolves have a nasty bite.  


	4. Chapter IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, I had a bit of trouble with this chapter! Certain scenes did not want to be written, and I'm still not 100% happy with them, but I hope you enjoy anyway! This will be my last chapter probably for the next week, as I'll be holidaying in Edinburgh, but I'll see you all soon. Once again, thank you for the tremendous response :) enjoy x

Catelyn had just extinguished her last candle when there was a knock on her chamber door. She sighed to herself, feeling exhausted, and pulled a heavy robe on top of her nightdress before answering the door.

Petyr stood there, sharp features illuminated by the candle he held. “Cat.”

“Petyr, what do you want?” Catelyn sighed. “It is late,”

“Do not marry him, Cat,”

There was a heavy moment of silence. Petyr stared up at Catelyn imploringly, while Catelyn’s mouth was hanging slightly open in surprise. Her blue eyes were wide, and her heart seemed to have dropped to her very toes. 

Eventually, Catelyn forced out, “I do not know what you speak of, Petyr. And I am very tired.”

Petyr took a step forward, and Catelyn stumbled backwards, and Petyr was shutting the door behind him, leaving her trapped in the room with him.

“I think you do, Cat,” he said, putting the candle down. “The rumours are everywhere. They say Eddard Stark intends to ask your father for your hand.”

“If he is, that is his and my father’s prerogative and not mine.” Catelyn said firmly, her stomach tying itself in knots.

“Your father loves you very much, Cat,” Petyr pointed out, spreading his hands. “If you told him you did not want to marry Stark, and wanted to marry someone else, he would listen to you.”

“Marry someone else? What are you talking about?”

Catelyn looked and indeed was honestly confused, although dread was thrumming through her veins. Petyr clasped his hands together.

“I want you to marry me, Cat, marry me instead of Eddard Stark,”

 _Marry_ him? Catelyn's throat tightened and she was momentarily unable to speak. She thought Petyr was more fond of her than he ought to be, yes, but to actually entertain the notion of their marriage! Her father would never allow it, even if she wanted to. She took a small step back, and saw Littlefinger's eyes follow the motion.

“Petyr—”

“I know I’m no prince, but we love one another and I will make you as happy as any king could!”

Catelyn shook her head, as if to dispel what she was hearing. “Petyr, no.”

“Cat—”

“Stop calling me that!” Catelyn suddenly snapped, turning on her heel and pacing away from him, putting distance between them. “I will not marry you, for it is not my duty and nor is it my heart’s desire. I do not love you, Petyr. You are like a brother to me, not a husband or a lover.”

She stared out the window to avoid looking at him, her heart thumping in her chest. Her hands were trembling, and so she folded her arms to hide them. She did not hear anything from behind her for a long moment. Finally, Petyr said in hushed tones, “I see the prince has bewitched you, Cat, and I understand your dedication to your father’s wishes. I apologise for disturbing your sleep,”

Catelyn wanted to turn around and scream at him, make him believe that she truly did not love him and did not want to marry him, and that rapidly her father’s wish was becoming her own, but she did not. Petyr had always been a fanciful boy, with an imagination she had once been envious of, and she did not imagine he would easily part with his own notion. Instead, she stood with her back to him and listened as Petyr slipped out the door and shut it behind him. He had left his candle behind.

Catelyn could hardly sleep that night for fear, fear that some passing maid or servant would have seen Petyr entering her chambers, or heard their fight, and spread the word around. Her stomach was in knots as she dressed in the morning, tired and worried, but as she arrived in the hall to break her fast, Eddard looked at her with that smile she was beginning to think of as hers alone and her father stood and kissed her cheek in greeting, and she knew that no unsavoury rumours had found them. None of the servants looked at her differently, assuring her that they too had heard nothing. She resolutely ignored Petyr Baelish, even though it was rude - however, Petyr seemed to be ignoring her too. He spent the meal staring down at his plate, half-listening to Lysa’s chatter.   

 

* * *

 

The Baelish boy was often roped into training at swords with Edmure, and Brandon took entertainment in watched the fighting; Petyr proved himself to be little better than Edmure despite being twice his age. However, several days after Baelish's return to Riverrun, Lady Catelyn invited Eddard to walk with her through Riverrun’s grounds, as they often did together. This time, though, the Lady Lysa did not want to join them, and so Brandon decided to take her place and accompany the septa. Eddard had awoken that morning looking nervous but determined, and Brandon thought today would be the day he broached the topic of marriage with Catelyn.

And, as he was a _spectacularly_ good brother, Brandon decided he would help wherever he could.

 

* * *

 

The four of them chose to stroll alongside the river, through tall trees that thrived in the wet humidity of the Riverlands. Catelyn and Ned were several paces ahead, standing a respectable distance apart, when Catelyn directed a question over her shoulder to her septa and received no response. Upon turning, the pair found no trace of Brandon or the septa.

“Where could they have gone?” Eddard asked curiously.

Catelyn looked up at him with a grin on her face. “Perhaps my dear septa has finally fallen under the spell of your brother’s charms,”

Eddard laughed then, and it reverberated pleasantly through Catelyn’s body. “He certainly does have a way with words,” he conceded, as they resumed their walk. Feeling emboldened by their solitude, Catelyn slipped a hand into the crook of his elbow. She felt Eddard pause, slightly, beneath her touch, but he did not object. She marvelled at the feel of him, the muscles and sinews of his arm and the heat radiating from him at odds with his initial cold demeanour.

The silence lasted a few heartbeats, and it was not uncomfortable as some silences can be. Eddard was not a verbose man, nor as obviously charming as Brandon, but Catelyn found the quiet comforting with him, and his charm lay in his other merits – his smile, his laugh, the way it seemed like she was the only woman in the world when they were together. He had a dry sense of humour and plenty of warmth beneath his icy armour, and Catelyn found herself thinking that she could be very happy with Eddard Stark.

As if he had read her mind, he cleared his throat and said, “My lady, there’s something I have been meaning to discuss with you.”

“Oh?” Catelyn looked up at him, studying his profile. Eddard swallowed.

“I am sure you know why my brother and I have come here,” he told her, drawing to a stop. After a moment to brace himself, he turned to look at her. Catelyn watched him with a small smile on her face and affection in her eyes, and it spurred Eddard on.

“My father wishes me to take a wife,” he continued, “And I was sent here to find a suitable one.”

Catelyn’s smile wavered slightly. This was not quite the romantic proposal she had envisioned.

Eddard seemed to realise this at the same moment as her, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. “What I mean – ah, is – if you would have me, my lady, I should like to marry you,”

“I’m suitable?” Catelyn asked with a hint of teasing to her voice, even as her hands shook with nerves and her stomach twisted. Eddard’s eyes flashed with surprise, and then filled with warmth. He reached out then and took her hand between his two big ones.

“More than suitable, my lady,” he said quietly, “You have exceeded every expectation I had, and I know I would be lucky to be your husband.” 

Catelyn’s heart missed a beat, and then resumed beating erratically against her ribs. She swallowed and lifted her other hand to clutch at his. She did not say anything, but stared down at their joined hands as she fought to control her emotions. Eddard pulled one of his hands out from between hers and rested it on the back of her head, feeling the silky strands of her beautiful hair. Catelyn looked up at him at the touch, eyes sparkling. Mustering his courage, Eddard leant forward and pressed a kiss to Catelyn’s mouth.

It was a chaste kiss, and lasted mere seconds, but still Catelyn thought it was more wonderful than anything she had known before, any kiss she had shared with Petyr out of youthful curiosity. She was breathless and giddy when he pulled away, and the smile he gave her may have been the most beautiful thing Catelyn had seen. She thought her own smile was like to split her face, so wide and real as it was. She found herself unable to speak past the lump in her throat, but fortunately her nod was answer enough.

 

* * *

 

“You _are_ to be married?”

Lysa stared at her sister, as did Edmure. Petyr was nowhere in sight and, frankly, Catelyn did not care where he was. She had been smiling ever since Eddard had kissed her, ever since he had asked her to be his wife.

“I am,” she answered Edmure’s question. “Prince Eddard asked for my hand this morning. He is talking to Father now,”

“That’s wonderful,” Lysa said, taking her sister’s hand, but her voice seemed sad. Catelyn looked, curious, at her.

“This is the way you predicted,” she reminded Lysa, “I believe you saw it before I even dared hope. You do not feel wronged, sister?”

“No, no,” Lysa assured her. “If either of us should marry the Prince, it should be you – it always should have been. I am just sad to be losing my dear sister, Cat.”  

Catelyn’s face softened. “You are not losing me. I will be going north, but I will always be your sister and I hope a dear one.”

“Cruel mistress that the North is,” Lysa giggled a little and Catelyn laughed with her. Edmure frowned.

“ _I_ don’t think you should go, Cat,” he announced, but his expression became sheepish when both of his sisters turned to him. “Although I’m happy you are betrothed, and I am happy you like the Prince.”

Catelyn ruffled his hair. She knew Edmure would see her off as proud as any brother could be, despite his desire to keep her with him. She wondered how she could explain to her brother and sister that her marriage was not her _duty_ alone but something she had come to long for in her heart – Catelyn did not just like the prince, but felt something more deeply than she ever could have hoped for in a match. The idea of what that could blossom into once they were wed made her happier than she had ever been.

There was a knock on the door, and when it opened, her father stepped in. Hoster’s eyes drifted over his younger children and lingered on Catelyn, who had stood up and was watching him just as carefully. He smiled.

“Come here, little Cat,” he said, spreading his arms. Catelyn crossed the room to stand in front of him, and Hoster took her face in his hands. “You are fond of the prince?”

It was a frightful understatement, but Catelyn nodded.

“He tells me you have already accepted his suit – is this true?”

She nodded again. Hoster inclined his head, and ran his thumbs over her cheekbones. “I cannot even describe how keenly I shall feel your absence, my girl – but you will be the most beautiful princess the North has ever seen.”

A grin lit up Catelyn’s face. “You have consented?”

Hoster looked surprised. “Who am I to keep such a well-made match apart? From the first day, it has been like the gods themselves have brought you two together, little Cat.”

Her face coloured and she looked down, still smiling. Hoster pressed a kiss to his daughter’s forehead, and she clung to him.

“The Princes will soon depart from Riverrun,” he told her, “And we will begin preparations to travel north within the next few moons. You are to be married at the Northern Kingdom’s court, at Winterfell.”

The grand castle of Winterfell was one Catelyn had read about, once more distant and unimaginable than even King’s Landing, but since they had known each other, Eddard had painted her a picture of it with his words so vividly that Catelyn felt she already knew it. She nodded, clasping her hands in front of her.

“King Rickard will soon send word to King Aerys that they have made a match,” Hoster continued, “And we must write to the king as well. He will likely send his consent and blessings soon, little one. The King of the Southern Kingdom must consent to one of his subjects marrying into a Northern house, as you know,”

Catelyn looked up at her father. “And if he should refuse to do so?”

Something flickered over Hoster’s face then, and he frowned.

“In all the centuries since Aegon and Torrhen, little Cat, the kings of North and South have never refused such a thing,” Hoster told her, “It would be complicated to do so, as the treaty states the Stark heirs should marry Southern houses, and the Targaryens should marry Northern houses.”  

“You don’t think King Aerys could be the first?” she asked, worriedly. There had been little to no strife between the kingdoms, she knew, despite lingering resentments about the sharing of heirs and bloodlines. Targaryens had a tradition of wedding brother to sister, and as they often had so many children, they were able to wed the oldest son to the oldest daughter and placate the North with those remaining. It was rare that a Targaryen was not able to marry a Stark, or at least the heir of a powerful Northern house. The reason the fragile relationship between the kingdoms had endured was the way they always managed to placate each other, but King Aerys had never seemed the sort of king to soothe hurt feelings with kindness. Catelyn did not want to be a victim of his temper.

“King Aerys would not risk the anger of King Rickard,” Hoster said, sounding certain. “He is not Aegon reborn, and he no longer has the Targaryen beasts to wield over the kingdom.”

Catelyn nodded, reassured, and Hoster placed his hands on her shoulders. “But let us not talk of these dark tidings. This is a happy time, and I would see my daughter smiling.” 

Catelyn was a dutiful daughter, and did as her father asked.


	5. Chapter V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the continued wait, guys! Real life got away with me this summer, and I'm afraid cavorting about European capitals such as Edinburgh and Stockholm has been favourable to writing. But I'm back now, and hope you'll enjoy this newest installment! :)

Brandon laughed and clapped Eddard on the back. Bashful, the younger man looked away.

“My little brother!” Brandon exclaimed, “A husband-to-be! And what a beautiful sister I shall have.”

“She is that,” Eddard agreed.

“What happened then, Ned? After the septa and I left you. Tell me everything!”

Eddard could tell from the gleam in Brandon’s eye that he expected a story worth telling – perhaps some behavior ill-befitting a lady and a prince. Eddard could tell him of the kiss he and Catelyn had shared, but the memory filled him with such warmth and joy that he selfishly decided to keep it to himself.

“That’s between the two of us, Bran,” he said carefully.

Brandon rolled his eyes. “Oh, _Ned_ —”

“It’ll be our secret, mine and Catelyn’s,” Eddard grinned, cutting off his brother. “The first of our marriage.”

Brandon rolled his eyes, “ _Fine_. Have your secrets,” and then asked, “Have you treated with her father?”

“I have – Lord Hoster has consented, quite happily.”

Brandon grinned widely. “Wonderful news, Ned. You must write to Father immediately, and he will send word to King Aerys. No doubt Lord Hoster is already preparing his post – we will depart within the fortnight, I say, and I would have all this political business sorted out.”

Eddard nodded and made to move over to the desk. Brandon’s firm hand on his shoulder stopped him. “Brother?”

Brandon met his questioning gaze, eyes warm. Eddard felt more than a little uncomfortable. “I just wanted to say how happy I am for you, brother,”

Eddard smiled and ducked his head. With a final squeeze, Brandon released him and watched as he sat at the desk, producing a quill and ink.

“Just one question,” Eddard asked as he set out his writing instruments.

“Hm?”

“Where exactly did you go with Lady Tully’s septa?”

Had Eddard looked over his shoulder, he would have seen Brandon’s wolfish smile. “Ah… now that’s _my_ secret, little Ned.”

“Oh, _brother_.”

“Now, now, brother. I will not have you gossiping. The septa is an honourable woman.”

“I do not doubt her honour – it is _yours_ I doubt.”

“You _wound_ me, Eddard!”

Eddard huffed out a laugh and turned his attention to his letter. Brandon lowered himself into a comfortable chair with a happy sigh. They had achieved their aim, and would soon be returning home. He was a happy prince indeed.

 

* * *

 

A raven heading North departed Riverrun that day. It was one of the castle’s strongest birds, and it flew quickly and it flew true. The weather was kind to it, and mild, but still no Southern bird was used to the chill in the Northern air, and it was several days before the letter arrived at Winterfell.

The news of his son’s engagement pleased King Rickard Stark, but did not surprise him. Brandon had writ him some time prior, already indicating that Eddard’s interest lay in the older Tully girl.

Standing from his desk, he reached for the cane leaning against it. He was not a young man anymore, and it grew more and more difficult to walk in the chill air of Winterfell. However, he was not too proud to take help when needed, and the stick recommended by the maester had proved helpful indeed.

He made his way down the stairs from his solar, and made his way out of the castle. After all these years as the King in Winterfell, he barely noticed the servants parting way for him, dipping into low bows as they did so.

Out in the training yard, he found exactly what he had expected. His youngest son, Benjen, stood before a straw-stuffed dummy, wielding a wooden stick as if it was a Valyrian steel long-sword. Sitting on the fence observing was Rickard’s only daughter, Lyanna. Rickard paused a moment, feeling the icy wind whip his face, and watched his children for a moment. It seemed as though Rickard had done nothing but blink and suddenly Lyanna was a beautiful woman, and Benjen was stood at the same height of his shoulder. And now Eddard was to be married – how quickly his babes had grown.

Lyanna was the first to notice him, and she leapt off the fence and bolted towards him, grinning. Despite his best efforts and that of his wife and Old Nan, Lyanna had not become the refined lady of court that she was supposed to be, but Rickard did not mind too much. They did not live by the strict regulations that the Southern Kingdom did, and Rickard would not deny his daughter her own agency, with the Mormont ladies at court to look up to. She had a spark in her blood, his girl, and for all his propriety Rickard was loathe to smother it.

“Father!” Lyanna exclaimed, skidding to a halt in front of him and smoothing down her skirts. She had recently consented to wearing gowns rather than the ratty breeches and shirt that she had pilfered from Brandon some years ago, and if that was the only victory he won with his daughter, Rickard would take it. “Father, we heard a raven arrived this morning – is it Bran? Or Ned?”

“Good day, daughter,” Rickard said politely, pointedly. “You are looking well,”

Lyanna sighed in a manner far too world-weary for a maid of fourteen, and dipped into a shallow curtsey, bowing her head. “Good morning, your grace.”

Benjen, catching up with his sister, bowed quickly and stood up straight, grinning. He grew more and more like Brandon each day, Rickard thought. With a sly smile of his own, he produced the letter from his pocket and held it out to Lyanna. She took it gently from him and murmured a thank-you, although he suspected her fingers itched to snatch it and get the news as quickly as she could.

Lyanna pored over the paper, Benjen pressed close to her side to share in the information, and Rickard smiled knowingly as he watched their eyes roam. Both had missed their elder brothers a lot, he knew, and they would be pleased to know both would be returning soon. Lyanna, who was the faster reader, reached the letter’s end first, and she turned big eyes towards her father.

“He’s finally asked her?” she asked, and Rickard could see the strain in her mouth where he knew she was smothering a smile. “Lady Tully will be his wife?”

“It appears so, yes.” Rickard rumbled, clasping the silver direwolf head at the top of his cane with both hands.

Lyanna and Benjen exchanged looks, and Rickard could see the excitement pass between them in that look.

“Wonderful news!” Lyanna exclaimed, clapping her hands together and creasing the letter. “I shall have a sister at last,”

“I have enough sisters,” Benjen grumbled, and Lyanna drove an elbow into his ribs in response.

Rickard said her name warningly, and Lyanna clasped her hands in front of her, blinking up at her father with doe eyes. Rickard’s heart warmed at the sight.

“I am very pleased for Ned, father,” Benjen said, standing a little taller. “But I am more pleased that he’ll be home soon. He’s much better at sparring than any of the other lads at court,” 

Rickard arched a brow. “I trust that is not your only reason to be happy for your brothers’ homecoming, my boy.”

Benjen fidgeted a little, turning his wooden sword over in his hands. “No, Your Grace, of course not. I am anxious to see my brothers again.”

Rickard suppressed a smile of his own. “Good,” he said, with an air of finality, before turning on his heel.

As he crossed the yard, back into his Winter Castle, he heard a gleeful squeal from behind him, and a telltale _thump_ that could only be Lyanna flinging herself into Benjen’s arms.

 

* * *

 

The servants had drawn heavy curtains over the windows, and closed the doors, and left the fire unlit, but still the heat of King’s Landing seeped into the room, turning the air warm and thick and unbearable.

Tywin Lannister watched with bright green eyes as his King turned the parchment over in his withered hands. Only a candle standing on the desk provided light to read the letter by, but Tywin and King Aerys Targaryen both already knew the contents of it. The King of Winter had arranged a marriage for his second son, Prince Eddard Stark, to a Southron girl, as per the Old Treaty’s terms. Mere hours before King Rickard’s letter had arrived, a raven had carried another letter, sealed with the Tully sigil and professing the same news.

As far as Tywin cared, their course of action was obvious. They had no choice but to consent to their subject’s match, lest they risk war with the Northern Kingdom, and frankly Tywin saw no reason to object. The relationship was fragile at best, but it had sustained and kept the peace in their kingdoms. King Rickard was a patient man, but to reject his son’s match would be an embarrassment, and one a King would not allow. And yet, King Aerys made no move to send letters of consent to the Starks or the Tullys. Blank parchment and fresh ink sat before him, but he continued to turn King Rickard’s letter over in his hands, studying it as if it was the thickest tome of history.

When the King did speak, his voice was low enough that Tywin had to strain to hear. “So, the wolves have chosen a little trout princess, have they?”

Tywin met his gaze steadily. “The King of Winter must make a Southern match, as per the treaty’s conditions, my lord, and the choice is their own. I’m sure Lady Catelyn Tully will make a fine princess,”

Lord Lannister had barely laid eyes on Hoster Tully’s eldest, but they said she was a pretty girl, and very kind. She must be _very_ kind, if the Starks had seen fit to pass up his own daughter, a maiden of surpassing beauty.

The King smirked mirthlessly. “My Lord Lannister. It does rankle me so, having to send our lovely maids to freeze to death in that cold wasteland. So many of my own blood have done so,”

“And countless Starks have lived and died in the South,” Tywin pointed out. 

“They must have melted in the heat,” Aerys said dryly. “Read this,”

He threw the letter down onto the tabletop, and Tywin picked it up with long fingers, turning his emerald gaze to the King in the North’s fine script.

“How well-worded his request is,” Aerys sneered. “How polite his phrases – when he knows as well as I that this is no request, but a demand. It has been made very clear that I must agree, as my forefathers have before me.”

Tywin did not point out that King Aerys too could make such demands of King Rickard. Should he decide to wed one of his younger children to a Stark, or a Northern house, he would behave in precisely the same manner King Rickard have. Prince Rhaegar had married the Dornish girl, but Viserys might yet make a Northern match, as might the babe in Queen Rhaella’s belly.

“The Starks have always been good with words,” the King was saying, and Tywin watched as he ran one pale finger through the candle’s flame, quick enough not to burn. _If the Targaryens can burn_ , he thought absently. “And with that, Torrhen tamed the dragon. _Torrhen the Silver-Tongue_ , they called him. I think _Wolf-Tongue_ would be more apt, for the lies dripped from it as the blood of fresh prey drips from a direwolf’s,”

No one knew that was said in that frozen hall so long ago, but Aerys had his own idea that Torrhen Stark had tricked Aegon with untruths and one must not argue with a King.

“That treaty is the biggest mistruth of all,” Aerys murmured, half to himself. “And I ought to avenge my ancestor, and take what is mine by right,”

Tywin’s eyes snapped up to his King’s, and for the first time in a long time he felt the beginnings of nervousness pooling in his stomach. “Your Grace?”

Aerys looked away from the open flame, back to his Hand. Silence took over in that hot, stuffy room for a long moment, before Aerys sat up.

“Pass me that ink,” he said irritably. “I will write my letters of consent, and Hoster’s little trout can marry the wolf prince of her choice. I hope they do not eat her.”

 

* * *

 

The day their party was due to leave the Riverlands dawned bright and warm, and Eddard Stark was immeasurably pleased to be returning to the chill he was used to.

Brandon seemed to share his eagerness to leave the humidity of Riverrun, and was currently helping the servants pack up their belongings.

“You never help pack,” Eddard had said upon noticing Brandon’s behaviour.

“Today, I want to help.”

Eddard grinned at his brother cheekily. “Come now, Bran, you can say if you are eager to get home. I’m sure our hosts will not be too offended.”

Brandon looked up from his task, scowling. “You know, brother, you have become much more jovial since Lady Catelyn consented to marry you. I do not like it,”

Eddard chuckled and turned away, wandering out into the corridor. In truth, he _had_ been in high spirits since the betrothal had been officiated. Lord Hoster had received a raven from King’s Landing some time before King Rickard sent word to his sons that the King in the South had consented, and that night he had announced at the feast that Lady Catelyn Tully would marry Prince Eddard Stark, and be made a princess. The guests and his bannermen had cheered at the news and thumped their tankards of ale on the long tables, and toasted to the couple’s marriage, and their joviality had reminded Eddard and Brandon both of home, their lusty bannermen and a true Northern celebration. That night, Catelyn had openly gripped Eddard’s hand above the tabletop, and they spent the evening in conversation, and eventually she had even convinced him to dance with her. He was not a natural dancer, and had begun awkwardly and stiffly, but the sheer joy Catelyn had seemed to take from it encouraged him to relax, and by the time they sat back down, several songs later, even Eddard had been flushed and laughing.

 _You really do have a wonderful smile_ , Catelyn had told him, her own shining beautifully as she said it, _It is a pity I don’t see it more often_.

Ned had thought he would make sure to smile much more often for her, and it was clear Brandon, at least, had noticed.

He wondered if Brandon would begin seeking out a bride once they returned to Winterfell, and he was married to Catelyn. There were plenty of women in the North who would fall over themselves to be in Brandon’s presence, let alone his wife.  Perhaps a Dustin, or a Karstark, or a Mormont. Ned thought about the women at his father’s court, of the eligible ladies who could be made a Crown Princess. He hoped Brandon had behaved well enough that one of these ladies would still have him. Eddard wanted to see his brother wed and happy, as happy as he was. 

“My lord, you appear very deep in thought,”

Eddard jumped to hear the voice, and swung around to see Catelyn behind him, her hands clasped behind her back. It reminded Eddard of the first day he had spent in her company, when they had been little more than strangers and she had shown him around the castle. She wore a dress of her house colours, but her hair was largely unbound, the look one he admired greatly on her.

“My lady,” Eddard said warmly, turning to face her. “You look lovely,”

Catelyn turn a flattering shade of pink. Eddard had been rather surprised by the Tully propensity to blush in the beginning, but recently had become rather enamoured with it.

“Thank you, your Grace,” Catelyn replied demurely, looking at him through her lashes.

Eddard glanced about them, pleased to find the hallway empty save them, and stepped a little closer to her, holding out his hands. Catelyn hesitated a moment, as was proper, before taking them in hers.

“I shall be sorry to see you go, my lord,” she confessed, and her fingers tightened around his. Eddard squeezed back gently.

“It is not for long. And when we are reunited, it shall be to marry,” he reminded her. Catelyn’s eyes brightened at that, and the smile returned to her face.

“I will be counting down the hours, your Grace,” she told him teasingly, and Eddard huffed a chuckle.

“Please, my lady,” he said gently, “Call me Ned,”

Catelyn looked surprised at his words, and reared back just slightly. “Your Grace, I—that, that would not be _proper_.”

Eddard laughed again at her expression, and laced their fingers more tightly together. “My lady, you are to be my wife, and all my family calls me Ned,”

“I am not yet your wife,” Catelyn pointed out, looking down shyly at their joined hands. Eddard’s smile softened and he released one of her hands, bringing his own up to gently lift her face, fingers beneath her chin. Catelyn’s eyes widened briefly at the contact, but he saw no trace of fear or uncertainty in their depths.

“No, not yet,” he conceded quietly, “But soon, my lady, and forever thereupon,”

Catelyn’s smile widened and he felt her free hand rest on his torso, her fingers curling in his doublet. Their moves were no more practised or eased since the first time they had kissed – since their betrothal, they had stolen one or two more, but neither were willing to infringe upon their honour any more than that. Still, it felt natural when Catelyn’s hold on him tightened and propelled him forward, and their lips met. The feeling was no less new or exciting, and Eddard cupped her face with both his hands, and hoped it would always be like this.

Somewhere outside their embrace, someone cleared their throat. Eddard and Catelyn sprung apart, and upon turning, found Brandon Stark leaning against the corridor’s wall, the biggest, shit-eating grin on his face. Eddard’s heart sank.

“Y-your Grace!” Catelyn stammered out, her face turning that fetching pink shade once again.

“Lady Tully,” Brandon responded, still with that wretched smile.

Catelyn looked between him and Eddard, and the colour of her face deepened. She cleared her throat awkwardly and turned back to Brandon.

“If you’ll excuse me, your Grace,” she said politely. She bobbed a curtsey and strode out of the corridor, although Eddard thought part of her wished to flee.

“ _Brandon_ ,” Eddard turned to his brother, angry. He wanted to chase after Catelyn and check that all was well, but he thought that would not be welcome at present. Brandon turned his grin onto his little brother.

“Well, well, Ned.” Brandon said, voice slightly choked as he tried to keep from laughing. “I’ll bet you _did_ kiss her in the—”

“Seven hells,” Eddard swore, a saying he had heard from the Southerners that he knew would irritate his brother to hear from his lips, and stormed away in the same direction Catelyn had. Behind him, he heard Brandon finally give way to laughter, and he cursed his brother again and again.

Later, as the party bound for Winterfell gathered in the courtyard, Eddard caught sight of his betrothed standing alongside her family. Catelyn’s face was still slightly red, but when she felt his gaze on her, she met it boldly, and offered him a quick grin before her father turned around. Instantly, Eddard felt better, at peace, and when it came to bidding their hosts farewell, Catelyn’s grip on his hand was as tight as before as he bent to kiss it, and that sweet smile on her face. Her voice was warm as she wished him safe travels, her gaze as soft toward him as ever, and Eddard thought they would find the humorous side in this before long. It seemed his brother had not mortally offended her after all.

Still, when Brandon asked for a leg-up onto his horse, Eddard took the place of his squire and assisted him with more force than was necessary. It brought him his own satisfaction to watch as Brandon nearly went over the beast’s back, and he met his older brother’s glare with a perfectly innocent expression.

“Come, brother,” Eddard called as he climbed into his own horse, “Winterfell awaits!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I can't write kissing scenes. And I may love Brandon Stark a little too much, considering his next-to-complete lack of presence in ASOIAF. What with him being dead, and all. I also love some cute awkwardness, me. Haha!
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> Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you've enjoyed, and I will try to be speedier next time. :)


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